


Desperate, Darling

by Coeurire



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous time period with relationship to canon, Desperation, Gen, Omorashi, PWP, Pee, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Some humiliation but not really because honestly Mettaton has no shame, i'm trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 10:10:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coeurire/pseuds/Coeurire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's a gorgeous robot to do, when his artificial bladder hasn't been emptied in too long and he's live in front of a studio audience and the entire TV-watching Underground? </p>
<p>Tumblr request from anon for "desperate leg robot."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate, Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Second-ever fic. Reviews are greatly appreciated!

There were some things that Mettaton should definitely have thought about before going live. 

Maybe, twenty minutes ago, while he was making sure every metallic lock of his gorgeous hair was just absolutely perfect, he should have noticed the way he was shifting his weight from foot to foot. Maybe, ten minutes ago, he should have just accepted that his makeup was beautiful the way it was, and dashed off to the lavatory instead of absently jamming one hand between his thighs while the other shakily reapplied hot-pink lipstick. Maybe, if he had attended to his needs then, he wouldn’t be preparing to go into his two-hour variety show - filmed before a live audience - absolutely desperate to empty his synthetic bladder. 

But he hadn’t, and now he was here, squeezing his thighs together and passing it off as a pose as the curtain went up. Hundreds of monsters, packed into the little studio, exploded with applause when they saw his face. Mettaton swallowed hard and gave them all a big smile. “Good evening to my dears, my darlings, my loves, my adoring fans!” he cooed, devouring their applause. He crossed his legs one way, then the reverse and the reverse again in rapid succession, sweating but still beaming - this was just a series of his famous poses! “And how are you beautiful, angelic monsters doing tonight?”

Another thunderous round of applause rang through the studio, with flowers, socks and underwear being thrown at the stage. Mettaton ran through his usual banter on autopilot, clenching with all his might as he bent over to pick up some of the tokens. Oh God, could he make it? He had to go so fucking badly. I’ll be fine, he thought. I just have to focus on the show. Besides, there’s a commercial break in just a very short thirty minutes, surely I can just dash offstage for a moment.

So the robot ran through the first segment of his show, which consisted of stand-up comedy and celebrity impersonations (that is, impersonations of himself doing various adorable things). The entire half-hour was absolute torture. At first he tried to stand still, as he usually did for stand-up, but he gave that up when, after one particularly painful joke about Waterfall (just saying it made his bladder surge), he felt his whole body tense up. A trickle of water slowly made its way down his leg. He rapidly turned around and surreptitiously jammed his microphone into his groin, stemming the flow for a few moments until he was in a position that allowed him to turn around again, grinning with all his might through incredibly clenched teeth. “Sorry, darlings, I just- thought I saw something behind me! Which reminds me of the time…” He couldn’t stand still any longer, and began to move.

He walked the length of the stage, he twisted his lower body, he danced when he could, he posed and posed and posed again, thrusting his legs around and rocking his hips and clenching his fists. It was the most intense performance the audience ever saw. He watched the screen above the audience anxiously the whole time, until FINALLY, as sweat was dripping down his face and he thought he wouldn’t make it another second, it was time for a commercial break - and, more importantly, an intermission.

“You’ve all been such a good audience!” he crooned, more hurriedly than usual. “I’ll see you in a minute, loves.” As he turned around, another wave hit his bladder and he grabbed himself - subtly, he hoped - as he dashed offstage as fast as his clanging feet would take him. 

He shoved aside everyone he saw backstage, one hand firmly gripping between his legs - everyone worked for him, it wasn’t like he cared about their silly little judgments. “Out of my way, out of my way, out of my way!” he groaned dramatically, pushing past hairdressers and stagehands and set people. One stagehand, though, trailed behind him. “Um, M-Mettaton, sir, if you’re looking for the bathroom, you -” 

He turned to snarl at them. “I what!?!”

They squeaked. “Y-you don’t really have time - you’re already late, you have to change and redo your makeup for the next bit - r-remember?” 

If Mettaton had had blood, the color would have drained from his face. As it was, a whirring started coming from inside him. “Oh dear…” The puny weakling who had touched him was right; next was the dance bit, which started with a ballet. Meaning he would need to get into that leotard, that tutu, and those tights…His insides lurched, and he dropped to his knees, grinding a metal foot between his thighs and moaning out of need. No way could he make it through an entire new segment, and on top of that, he only had three minutes left to do this change.

“Sir,” asked the stagehand hesitantly, “are you alright?” He thought quickly, raised his head and snapped, his voice now glitching involuntarily from the intensity of his desperation, “Look, if I can’t get offstage, someone bETTER get me a waTER bottle, an EMPty one, fucking pronto, darling, okay????” The stagehand squealed out a “Yessir” and ran off, presumably to do that. Three others came up to begin getting him into his costume. 

“And fuck the tights!” he yelled at the costumers, still kneeling and rocking desperately, and they obediently tossed the offending articles of clothing aside. It was torture, but he stuck a leg straight out for a ballet shoe to be laced up, whining and jiggling it - then the other, oh god, he couldn’t make it another second in this position, he thought, and stood up as soon as the shoes were done, bending over and rubbing his knees together as he jammed his hands into his crotch. He considered feeling humiliated, but brushed it off - they, he reminded himself shakily, were working for him, so he just owned it. 

Now they were awkwardly holding out the leotard. “Where the fuck is that stagehand?” Mettaton grumbled, but it came out more like a plea. He carefully put one leg in, then the other, then pulled it up and immediately pulled it tight against his exhaust hole, using it to stop him up. He felt a tutu being placed on him, some final makeup being added, then after someone mentioned something about time, he was shoved forward towards the stage. Oh no. Oh no, he thought, digging in his heels, twisting his legs around each other, gripping the leotard. There had to be more time, where the fuck was that stagehand, seriously?

“C’mon, MTT,” someone was saying, “you’re on in a minute and a half, you have to go!”

At those words, Mettaton felt a stream run down his leg again, only this time it was more insistent. He grabbed himself as tightly as he can, but it wouldn’t stop coming out, and it was getting all over the stage and ruining his beautiful leotard, and it felt so good. “Fuck it,” the robot whispered, spreading his legs as he let go completely, and the trickle became a flood. He pressed his hands to himself and moaned synthetically with relief as the water poured out of him, creating a huge puddle on the stage that spread to his expensive ballet shoes. It had to be the longest piss he’d ever taken in his life, and now here he was sharing it with all his stagehands. But he didn’t care, because the relief…the relief was like nothing else.

Finally the flow slowed to a trickle once more, until he was just standing there, his head thrown back in bliss, letting the last few drops run off him. He ran his fingers through his hair. Dreamily he whispered, “My dears, you have forty-five seconds to get me out of this wet leotard and into something I can go onstage in or you’re all fired.”

Forty seconds later, Mettaton was graceful and lovely as ever in the stage manager's pants, and so the Underground’s hot new trend of ballet-in-baggy-jeans was born.

**Author's Note:**

> mettaton uses water in his system and he has to expel it and alphys built him an artificial bladder to help him do so okay i took bio 110 i definitely know science


End file.
